


The Ocean

by NightChanghes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coping Mechanisms, Death, Grief, M/M, not a happy ending but a peaceful one, the good place - Freeform, was imagining this takes place post s15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-18 23:44:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightChanghes/pseuds/NightChanghes
Summary: "Picture a wave in the ocean. You can see it, measure it, its height, the way the sunlight refracts when it passes through. And it's there. And you can see it, you know what it is.It's a wave.And then it crashes in the shore and it's gone. But the water is still there. The wave was just a different way for the water to be, for a little while. You know it's one conception of death for Buddhists: the wave returns to the ocean, where it came from and where it's supposed to be." -Chidi Anagonye, The Good PlaceDean is a wave, Castiel watches the water return to the ocean.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 11
Kudos: 37





	The Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> this is kinda a creative writing exercise, free-form work based on the quote, so i'd love to hear your thoughts! comment !

_ Picture a wave in the ocean. _

“Look at me, don’t close your eyes. Come on, focus. I’ve got you. Stay with me, okay?” 

_ You can see it, measure it, its height, the way the sunlight refracts when it passes through, and it's there, and you can see it, you know what it is. _

It’s stupid, so beyond what he needs to be thinking right now, but it’s true. Even like this, bloody and limp and helpless, he is beautiful. His freckles are only highlighted by the new, less permanent red ones that now speckle his cheeks. His green irises pull tight at the passing of light, they look like the backlit leaves of a forest’s canopy. His body, despite its brokenness, is solid, concrete, still on this plane of existence. The thought is both a comfort and a fear, a fear for the future when it will decay and become one with the earth that brought it forth before. 

_ It's a wave. _

Powerful one moment, fading out the next. 

“Hold on, just a moment longer, Dean. I know you can— hold onto me, hold onto my voice.” 

_ And then it crashes on the shore, and it's gone. _

When the war is lost and his spirit screams ‘pull back!’ into a retreat, Castiel knows. 

He can feel the loosening of the fingers intertwined between his, he can hear the rasps of breath grow further apart, he can see the brilliance of a righteous man dull, he knows. He wishes he didn’t. 

“You’re a fucking ‘angel of the Lord,’ Castiel! Why the fuck didn’t you save him?”

“Couldn’t.”

“You—”

A shuddered sigh,  “I should go.”

“I agree.”

“Goodbye, Sam.”

A turned head.

A closed door.

_ But the water is still there. _

Castiel slips a hand into the pocket of his trenchcoat. Toys with the edge of a piece of paper, soft with age. 

Some time has passed, according to whoever controls the clocks, but it doesn’t feel as though anything has healed. 

He pulls the paper and unfolds it in front of him. It lays like a blanket, no longer crisp like the day it was handed to him between deft fingers. He remembers the smile that split across Dean’s face when Castiel had begun to read it. He remembers the way his eyes had filled with light. The way that light was contagious, found its way into his heart and spread like a wildfire. 

He hadn’t known what a ‘bucket list’ was at the time, but he’s become acquainted since. 

They’d done a few of the items on the list together— before.

Castiel has been checking the rest off alone— after. 

There’s one final item, and his hands shake as he reads it one last time before deciding to complete it. A few hot tears escape and run down his cheeks to the paper when the finality of the situation hits him. He feels like Atlas, holding the world on his shoulders, the weight of it almost more than he can bear. 

He breathes deeply, gingerly folds the list, and stands. 

_ The wave was just a different way for the water to be for a little while. _

When he sees the ocean, he swears he can taste its salt. It’s a relief, to feel something so deeply for once. 

He touches his lips with reverence, letting himself close his eyes. He’s thankful for the taste on his tongue, ‘salt is good, but if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltiness be restored?’ 

It grounds him, makes him feel as though he has a purpose beyond finishing a list before he returns home— a home that no longer exists.

He walks to the water's edge and takes his shoes off. The sand is gritty and dark underfoot and makes the bubbles at the edge of the surf break stand out whiter than he remembers from when he was last at the edge of an ocean. 

He turns his face to the heavens, gazes at a hazy grey sky and lets the calm rush over him. He lets his ears soak in the sounds, his fingers feel the slight breeze dancing past, his feet sink below the surface. He smiles, he wishes—-

He wills the thought away, opens his eyes again and looks into the expanse of the sea before him. 

He’s not sure how much time has gone by, but the tide has retreated a bit and the sun has found its way to poking out between clouds. Castiel reckons he should shake out the towel he brought and sit on a tiny square of beach in this infinite universe. 

He knows Dean would have wanted him to stay awhile, especially with the warmth of the sun coming to greet him. He sure as hell wouldn’t let Castiel just stand ankle-deep in sand all day. 

The thought of Dean pulling him to the water’s edge brings him a slight smile. He wishes it was a memory rather than a dream. 

Before he can turn to retrieve his things, a hand settles, firm, on his shoulder. 

For the briefest of moments, he thinks it’s going to be Dean, but when he turns, he’s met by a different set of green eyes. They’re more tired than he remembers. The man before him looks worn, hardened by grief and spiritual warfare. It knocks something loose, protective, inside of Castiel and suddenly he’s pulling the man into a crushing hug. 

“Sam.”

He knows Dean would kill him for ever letting Sam get into this state, but he can’t think about that right now. He needs to find a way to will away all that pain he can see behind sunflower eyes. 

When they pull back from the hug, Sam nervously rubs a hand against the back of his neck. 

“Hi, Castiel.” 

“Thank you for meeting me. I was starting to wonder.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. S’for Dean.” He shrugs as if that’s all the explanation he would ever need to give.

Castiel nods like he understands. He does understand. He just wishes he didn’t.

“He’d be proud to see you standing here.”

A huffed laugh fills the space between them.

“Don’t talk about him like that.”

A cocked head.

“Like what?”

“Like he’s gone.”

Blue eyes fill with sadness, “But Sam…”

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m here, aren’t I? We’re doing this for Dean, no other reason. We’re here completing his stupid fucking bucket list, which honestly, I think you do more for yourself than for him, but I’m here. Stop trying to fill his place and let me watch the goddamn waves in peace like it’s therapeutic or some shit! Alright, Cas?” 

Castiel falls back into line like a soldier at war. His trenchcoat sways around him in the wind. He likes to think it’s Dean, wrapping the dumb coat around his shoulders like its part of him or something. He doesn’t let Sam’s words hurt him. Tries not to at least. He swallows down the odd discomfort in his throat which usually comes before tears. 

He ignores the ragged breaths of Sam beside him, tries not to think of how they sound like Dean in his final moments. 

He slips his hand into his pocket, pulls out that familiar comfort, and finds the pencil he brought along. 

Visit the Beach with Cas and Sam.

He checks it off. 

_ The wave returns to the ocean, where it came from, and where it's supposed to be. _

The leather chair, the brass clock, the face across from him— acquaintances. Familiar, but distant in a way that suggests they lack meaning to him, it’s ideal. 

“Where do you think he is now?”

“After everything? I honestly couldn’t say I know.”

“The wave returns to the ocean.”

A deep hum of agreement. 

“What the ocean does with the water after that is anyone's guess.”

_ The water laps at the shore. It asks the angel to come home.  _

He goes. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
